


starry, starry night

by hazydaisies



Series: shades of your heart [1]
Category: Clone High
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anyway Sorry, Clone High - Freeform, Feelings Realization, High School, Horny Teenagers, How Do I Tag, M/M, Mutual Pining, Romance, Self-Harm, Slow Burn, Teen Angst, actually no i can’t promise that, also this is my first committed project, also vinnie’s mental health issues are based off of my own experiences, and i’m a dumbass high schooler in four honors classes, angsty teens, anyway, clean ish for now, do i have adhd? probably! my therapist says i should have been tested like years ago, i haven’t left the house in like six months, idfk it’s vinnie and jfk what else do you want from me, im going insane, i’m kinda stupid and super mentally ill so, jfk has emotional depth, jock x nerd, mental illness warning, no graphic sex yet anyway, not really an au i just wanna make them dumb 2020 teens, not terribly original lmao, popular himbo pines from afar for tiny sad art boy, probably not though because i have attention issues, probably smut later, self harm tw, so it might be a little bit between updates, stupid high school fic, teen crisis hotline, this is my fixation now so, vinnie is sad :(, way way back in the nineteen eighties, with my lovely litany of disorders, yeah same lmao
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:07:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26671120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hazydaisies/pseuds/hazydaisies
Summary: clone high fic babey! jfk x our boy vincent can gogh. they’ve both been pining for far too long while being convinced that the other doesn’t like them. john finds something that could prove him wrong, but he doesn’t know who created it. he hopes it’s vincent. vinnie is gay and flustered very easily and also very sad.this is going to have ongoing themes of mental illness, self esteem issues, self harm, and suicidal ideation!!! i will tag each chapter with contents, but stay safe!!!also this is my first committed project! i’ve never actually posted any of my work before, so it might be kinda rough at first, but i hope you enjoy!!!please don’t repost my work anywhere! sharing with credit is absolutely appreciated though!!! my instagram is @rosemarysw0rd if you want to tag me! if anyone makes art of this i will cry. my dms are always open, so feel free to reach out! i’m socially awkward too please be my friend lmaoalso! this is going to be actually properly capitalized and punctuated, aside from ANs, and i don’t usually do that outside of school lmao. there will probably be mistakes, please bear with me!!!
Relationships: JFGogh - Relationship, JFK/Vincent Van Gogh (Clone High)
Series: shades of your heart [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1940629
Comments: 106
Kudos: 326





	1. paint your palette blue and grey

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this in one day. more to come but uh. yeah it sucks right now sorry  
> also! minor self harm tw for more towards the end- nothing graphic and no actions
> 
> the YEARNING,,,,,, the pINING ,,,, that is what i am here for

It’s early autumn now, football season all across America. The air is cooling in the evenings, sharp enough to make the students in the bleachers huddle together into shared body heat and shared laughter, but not sharp enough to dull the excitement. The first home game of the year is always an occasion, and you’d be able to tell even without the football team whooping down the hallways all day, decked out in jerseys and buzzing with the attention of every pair of eyes in the school. Occasion enough, even, to draw out the people who normally wouldn’t be caught dead at football games, the loners, the kids clinging to the walls as they tiptoe through classes, just trying to outlast the day. 

Vincent Van Gogh is very much one of those kids, and yet here he is, curled up in the uppermost corner of the bleachers. He asks himself again why he let his mother convince him to go, but remembers her smile when he finally relented, and sighs quietly to himself. He knows she worries about him, and he can manage to withstand one game, right? Maybe it’ll be like she said. A “chance to socialize with your peers more! It’ll be fun!” but he knows it’s a bit late for making real friends now. 

He pulls his jacket closer into himself with a shiver and steadies his sketchbook on his thighs, knees not quite to his chin. The game is starting up now, or it seems like it at least. It’s getting louder anyway. Vincent isn’t the biggest fan of noise. Or crowds, or football, or the cold. The one thing here he is a fan of, however, is the quarterback- tall, hot, popular Kennedy. Vincent can see him from where he sits against the wall of the bleachers, walking confidently across the field, shooting winks at the swooning cheerleaders. Vince turns back to his sketchbook with a small huff. _Kennedy’s a jerk,_ he thinks for a split second before giving up on trying to convince himself. 

_No he’s not,_ he admits, bitterly. _He’s not, and that’s the problem._ It would be a lot easier to hate him if he was really an asshole, but Vince can’t help but remember every time Kennedy stopped one of his shitty friends from shoving Vince- or anyone else- into their locker, how Kennedy would smile at him when Vince accidentally caught his eyes. Vincent absently presses his pencil into his paper and flicks his wrist into shapes and shades, lining the page with graphite. The game seems to have actually started now, and his eyes trace the path of the football across the air above the artificially green turf and Kennedy’s strong, reaching arms... _Stop,_ he commands himself silently, whipping his head back to his sketchbook.

He blinks down at the page and the face smiling back at him from it. _Fucking Kennedy._ He examines his drawing with resignation. The anatomy isn’t awful, but the shading isn’t great- and it’s Kennedy. Kennedy, with his perfect hair and perfect smile and cheekbones like a razor blade, walking across the field, football in hand, staring right back at Vincent from the grainy paper. Vince glances down at the real Kennedy, running across the field like a breathing daydream, and tucks his sketchbook into his chest. _Stupid, handsome Kennedy._ Vince lets his heartbeat bubble in his chest at the thought of Kennedy smiling up at him from the field, even though Vince knows he probably can’t see him from here. No matter how hard he tries, he can’t make himself hate Kennedy. He can’t stop desperately just wanting him to notice him, or talk to him, or hug him, or- 

Vince shakes his head violently, as if to crumble his thoughts back into sand like an etch-a-sketch. Kennedy keeps playing and Vince tries not to look at him. Why would Kennedy want anything to do with him anyway? He has everything- friends, good grades, his pick of any girl in the school- what would he need with Vincent, just some weird little art kid? He probably only ever pretended to notice Vince out of pity or just misplaced eye contact. 

Vincent pulls his knees up to his chin, pressing his sketchbook firmly into his chest, and lays his head down on his folded arms. He feels his phone buzz in his pocket and fishes it out without moving his head. 

**Mom**

****

****

Hey, honey! How’s the game?

Of course it’s just his mom. He lets out a long puff of air and glances across the sea of students, all of them there with friends or family or boyfriends, all of them belonging to someone. Vince folds even further into himself, like if he shuts his eyes hard enough he’ll really turn invisible this time instead of just feeling like it. He taps out a slow response to his mother, pausing for a second before he hits send. She hates when he lies to her, but he thinks she hates seeing him sad even more.

**Mom**

****

****

Hey, honey! How’s the game? 

it’s fine

He clicks his phone off and shoves it back into the pocket of his jacket. He studies the sunflowers he’s painted up the sleeves, almost to his elbows. They need to be touched up around the cuffs, probably just from Vince fidgeting with them. More shading would definitely be nice, and there are a couple of flowers with a few too many petals. He’s glad it’s too big for him. There’s more room to paint and he doesn’t have to worry about his sleeves slipping up. Then again, most everything is too big for him. He hates being so small, but likes being able to hide.

He sits and watches the rest of the game, refusing to open his sketchbook or even think about Kennedy. All he has to do is make it to the end and he can walk home. He can go to sleep. He pretends that he won’t see Kennedy in first period science in the morning. He studies the clouds, illuminated by the setting sunlight filtering through tufts of cotton, trying to plan how he’ll paint them later. The wind ruffles his messy red hair, puffing it up and sending a shiver down his neck. He reaches down the back of his jacket to pull the hood of his sweatshirt up over his head and tries to disappear.

~

The next morning, Vincent is sitting in the back of first period science with paint stained hands and dark circles under his eyes as usual. His sketchbook is open on his desk while he stares down at yesterday’s drawings, toying with the pencil in his hand. _Kennedy, Kennedy, Kennedy._ The real Kennedy is sitting a few rows up, slumped on his desk, uncaring. Vince lowers his pencil to keep drawing, but hesitates for a moment. He doesn’t want to get too attached, because he’ll just end up hurting more, but- _I’m already too attached. It doesn’t matter._

He keeps drawing Kennedy. Kennedy laughing with his friends, Kennedy taking a nap in his convertible, Kennedy smiling at him, Kennedy...

The haze of his daydreams is broken by a loud, sharp call of “Vincent!” from the teacher at the front of the classroom and his head shoots up immediately. 

“Y-yes?” he whispers, already feeling his cheeks burn and his heart double its pace in his chest. Oh god, everyone is looking at him. _Shit, shit shit shit._

“You are paying attention to this class, correct?”

Vince presses his palms into his desk, begging them to stop shaking. “Yes,”

The teacher raises an eyebrow. “Then you should have no problem answering the question on the board.”

Vince swallows hard and tries to focus on the board even though he can feel everyone’s eyes burning his skin and he’s breathing too fast but he has to just answer and be done, just _answer it Vincent, what is wrong with you?_

Thankfully, he remembers this from what little of the homework he got done last night, and he squeaks out “Uh- the first life forms on earth were, uh, prokaryotic microorganisms that... fed on carbon compounds in, um, deep sea hydrothermal vents?” His voice is tiny and wavering and everyone is still looking at him, but the teacher seems satisfied with his answer and turns back to the class. 

Vincent feels the eyes on him start to shift away and he glances up toward the board, still in the aftershocks of panic, just to make sure the teacher doesn’t talk to him again. As he looks up, he freezes on the one face still turned to him, expecting to find malice in the eyes looking back. 

There is no malice- but oh god, he knows that face. John Fucking Kennedy is staring back at him, him, Vincent Van Goner, the resident angsty emo kid for the rest of the student body to pick on. His eyes are shockingly warm, and his expression is gentle. Before Vincent can even begin to think of how to react, Kennedy is smiling at him, right at him, that perfect celebrity smile that sets off even more fireworks in Vincent’s chest, before turning back around like everything is absolutely normal and they are two people who smile at each other like that, though Vincent wasn’t smiling so much as he was trying not to cry. 

Vincent just sits there, frozen save for his heart, which is still pummeling his ribcage. His brain is shooting off ten thousand misfires a second and he can’t string together a single coherent thought, other than _Get out._ The bell rings after a few minutes and Vince snaps back into motion, shoving his pencils into his bag and grabbing his sketchbook, ready to run. As he passes the trash can by the door, he stops and rips the page out with a definitive yank, dropping it into the trash and leaving as fast as he can go without being noticed. _Stupid Kennedy,_ he seethes as his eyes begin to sting. _Stupid, stupid Kennedy haunting my brain, making me an even bigger idiot._

He darts through the halls and slips into his usual hiding spot, an unused supply closet in the math wing, locking the door behind him with a snap. There isn’t a light anywhere in this tiny block of space, but a cold glow filters in under the door from the hallway, and Vince doesn’t need light anyway. He’d rather not see anything, much less himself. He slumps down the wall, letting his bag slip out of his hand, and curls into himself on the cold tile floor. He pulls his knees up under his chin and rests his arms on top of them, tucking his face into his sleeves, muffling a choking sob with the soft, faded material of his jacket. He doesn’t like being so much smaller than his peers, especially when it draws attention to him, which is the opposite of what he wants. The upside, though, is being able to fold himself into almost nothingness, the ability to hide wherever he is. He hates being treated like he’s invisible, but sometimes he wishes he was. It’s easy disappearance.

He cries as quietly as he can into his forearms, pressing the freshest cuts into his bony knees and gasping at the jolt of pain. It’s taunting and grounding at the same time- the pain is preferable to his thoughts, but he feels so... so _idiotic_ for having to slice up his own skin to cope. _So fucking pathetic._

~

John Kennedy is laughing with Caesar about something stupid as he packs up his books, slinging his backpack over one broad shoulder and popping a stick of gum into his mouth. He glances over into the trash can as he walks through the doorway, gum wrapper already balled up in his fingertips, but stops before he drops it in. He leans over it, confused, but curious. A paper sits on top of the other trash, ripped at the edges, possibly out of a notebook. There are drawings all over it, some incredibly detailed and some neat, scattered doodles, but all of the same person. He reaches in, quick, trading his wrapper for this page full of art.

Him. He stares at it in disbelief. Him, undeniably- he marvels at the talent poured into it, the attention to detail, the... love. The number on his jersey is even correct. He walks out into the hallway, stuffing his hand and the paper into his pocket, until he reaches his locker. Out of sight of the crowds, he pulls it out and combs it over, something unnameable twirling in his stomach. His own face, copied in graphite, smiles back at him a dozen times over. 

_Who- Who?_ His brain spins and spits and whirs, trying to find an answer, an explanation, a reaction, anything. _Okay, okay. It’s first period, right? So either it’s from homeroom or my class._ He stops and blinks for a second as it settles in. Somebody cares about him this much, so, so much. There are scattered hearts doodled across the page in between miniature copies of himself playing football or laughing or just smiling. Someone drew these- someone talented, probably artsy. He tries to conjure a name or face of one of the art kids, the ones that eat lunch in the art room and hang paintings throughout the hallways. 

The first thing that flashes through his mind is a boy with apricot hair and a shy smile and big blue eyes- _Vincent, right?_ He fires _Vincent_ at the search engine of his memory and is greeted with much more than he thought. _Vincent, art kid, paints well. He seems nice, shy, but sweet. He has a pretty smile. He’s pretty. Wait-_ He stops for a second, struck by a strange, shimmery sense of deja vu. He’s thought about Vincent much more than he originally realized, and much more...questionably than he usually thinks about boys. The spark of embarrassed panic is doused by the realization that _oh god, maybe Vincent did draw these_ and oh god... _maybe Vincent could want something too._ John lets himself think for a moment about Vincent and maybes, about peachy lips and sweet laughter and the prettiest damn smile John has ever seen. _Yeah. Maybe._ He gets what people mean when they say “butterflies in your stomach” now. It’s an unfamiliar feeling, but not unpleasant. It’s... happy. Fizzy. He smiles to himself as he slips the paper back into his locker and sets off to class.


	2. look out on a summer’s day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> vinnie is going thru it and jfk is a simp

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahmdkgs this took a little longer to get out than i expected! i couldn’t quite figure out how i wanted it to go, but i think i’m pretty happy with this! i hope you enjoy!
> 
> again, super super minor self harm implications at the end

Vincent is jolted awake by the tinny ring of the bell, echoing through the hallways. He blinks for a moment, confused and greeted with semi darkness and the thundering of footsteps and chatter from outside the door. He runs his hands through his hair, wondering when exactly he decided to take a nap, before swiping his still damp sleeves across his eyes and fishing his phone out of his messenger bag. He flinches away from the glow and clicks it off, shoving it back into his bag in one fluid motion. 

_Okay, wait- how did- okay, hide, cry, fall asleep? Science, right, yikes- FUCKING KENNEDY._ He inhales sharply, flooding his lungs with air to force the panic back down, the sleep well and truly shaken from his limbs. Yeah, science sucked, but he can’t help but keep replaying Kennedy’s smile in his head, thoughts softening a little as he focuses on the warmth of his eyes, put on loop in Vincent’s screaming brain.

He stands up and slings his bag over his shoulder, smoothing out his jacket and too-big jeans, and takes another deep breath. He knows he looks like he’s been crying, but hopefully his face won’t be so red since he’s had some time to calm down. The noise from the hallway has quieted a bit, so he steps cautiously out, squinting at the harsh fluorescent light. Nobody is really around to notice, thankfully. He sets off down the hall toward his locker, stuffing in his books and grabbing his box of art supplies. He has a free period and he knows the art teacher doesn’t mind students dropping in at odd hours, so he shuts his locker gently and walks down to the only classroom in this school that feels somewhat welcoming. 

The teacher waves at him as he walks in before turning back to her laptop and Vince retrieves his half-finished canvas from the drying rack and sits down to paint.  
_Maybe it’ll be okay._

~

Kennedy has somehow made it through English by now, albeit paying much less attention than usual- which is saying something, because he’s barely ever paying attention anyway. The paper still sits on the shelf of his locker and he can almost feel its presence drawing closer as he walks down the hall. He waves and shouts back to calls of “JFK!” from around him, but he can’t help from scanning the sea of people for a glimpse of red hair. He doesn’t find it and pretends he isn’t disappointed. 

He turns the page back over in his hands as soon as he opens his locker, studying every tiny detail that he’s already committed to memory. He imagines Vincent drawing in the back of class, not a rare sight or one John ever gets tired of seeing, but drawing- drawing him. Thin, nimble fingers sketching out John’s face, that sweet little smile flickering down at the paper, baby blue eyes looking up only to study the back of John’s head to make sure he’s drawing his hair just right. The butterflies are back, migrating from his stomach up into his ribcage and dancing around his heart. _Vincent._

For the first time in his life, John F. Kennedy doesn’t know what to do. How does he go about approaching Vincent? What makes him so sure this is even Vincent’s work, anyway? Even if it is, what is he supposed to say? _God, this is so much harder than girls._ Girls also don’t set his lungs on fire with a look like Vincent does. He sighs.  
_I’ll find him later. I’ll figure it out._

~

Vince doesn’t move this time when the bell rings- lunch. He gropes around in his bag for what he considers an acceptable meal and subsequently sets half a bag of gummy worms and a Tupperware container of apple slices on the table in front of him. He hums softly to himself, barely bothering to notice the other cafeteria rejects wander in and settle themselves into their own work. He squeezes a gummy worm through the plastic and ducks down to grab it with his teeth, paint stained fingers smearing shades of sunny yellow across the packaging. _It’s peaceful here._

~

John is bracing his arms on a sink in the bathroom, staring himself down in the mirror and silently screaming a pep talk to himself, starting with _OKAY MISTER, BUCK UP, YOU GO DO THIS_ and ending with _GO GET HIM, TIGER! LONG LIVE THE KENNEDYS!_  
It’s his lunch period, but also, more importantly, Vincent’s lunch period. Vincent doesn’t usually eat in the cafeteria, he knows that, so the next most reasonable spot would be the art room. He ignores the fact that he still has no idea what he’s going to say when he gets there and the fact that this could go terribly wrong in a million different ways, and marches out of the bathroom while he still has the guts to try.

“Hey, where ya going?” Caesar calls to John’s back and John stops dead in his tracks. _Of course,_ he swears internally. _Fucking lunch._ He fixes his expression back into his usual grin and shouts back, “I have something to do for this teacher, see ya later though!” 

Caesar doesn’t question him and John turns toward his goal, trying not to fiddle with the folded leaf of paper in his pocket. He forces his feet to walk him forward, resolve fading and quickly being replaced by worry, but he’s committed to it now. _This is why people say you’re impulsive, dumbass. Please don’t fuck this up._ He tries to formulate some kind of plan or strategy or anything at all, but the only thing occupying the inside of his skull at the moment is _Vincent, Vincent, Vincent._

He halts on the threshold of the art wing, not really a wing so much as an alcove with a couple of classrooms and an overflowing paint closet. _What the hell are you doing, Kennedy? You found this in the damn trash and now you’re running all over the school to find one person who probably doesn’t even know what it is? What’s the plan? Shove it at him and ask if he drew it? You’re awfully committed for a guy who’s just looking for an excuse to talk to some art boy-_

He cuts off his thoughts by walking up to the door of the art studio and pulling it open, which he immediately realizes probably wasn’t the best course of action. The students near the door shoot confused looks towards him, no doubt wondering why he’s here. He’s not quite sure either, and he almost starts to mumble some excuse and escape back into the hallway when he sees a tuft of red hair in the corner of the room. _Alright. Game on._

He walks steadily across the tile floor, heart buzzing in his throat, to where Vincent is perched at a table in front of a half finished painting, sitting on one foot and resting the other next to it on the bench. John stops walking and glances nervously down at him.

Vincent looks up, face devoid of any emotion other than a trace of panic shining in his glassy blue eyes. _Goddamnit, you’re freaking him out, come on, say SOMETHING._ John clears his throat and mumbles out “Hey-um. Di- Do you mind if I sit here?”

Vincent’s cheeks are flushing a shade of pink somewhere between cherry blossom and strawberry lemonade- John can’t quite decide which. Vincent blinks at him a few times, seemingly at a loss for words, but opens his mouth to speak, words tumbling over themselves as they try to escape the thicket of emotion in his throat. His voice comes out in a gentle, high pitched stutter of “Uh...yeah, yeah, I guess,”

John sits down on the edge of the bench next to him and tries to come up with something more to say. Vincent is still staring at him. _He has really long eyelashes._ John can feel his face start to burn a little. _What is going on with you?_

“Er...what are you, uh, painting?” 

Vincent seems even more panicked now and John kicks himself internally.

“Uh it’s. Just the sunset. From the other night,”

John turns to look more intently at the canvas, surprised Vincent is even tolerating his presence. It’s not finished, but he can see every strand of sunlight weaving through the clouds and the bruised sky and the colors seem even realer in oil paint than in real life. He recognizes the view too, actually-

“Oh! That’s exactly how it looked at the game last night! Were...were you there?”

Vincent smiles a little bit this time, avoiding John’s eyes in...something. Embarrassment? Humility? Either way, John is trying to save this picture in his brain to properly fawn over later, because right now he has to focus more on staying functional. _C’mon, Kennedy. You’re supposed to be smooth._

Vincent nods slightly, cheeks flushed. John can see him absently picking at the skin of his fingertips and scrambles to think of an answer to the question undoubtedly coming in the next few seconds. _Okay, um. I wanted to say hi! No, that’s stupid. You seem cool! No, that definitely sounds like I’m pulling some shitty prank on him. I like your art? Maybe. Is it even up anywhere around the school- OH! Yes! The mural on the wall by the gym! That was him, wasn’t it? It was after- after that party, right. Gandhi was a massive asshole and Vincent was teased for weeks, so the mural was revenge. It was actually really good-_

His own thoughts are cut off by Vincent’s small voice, shaking a bit now and clearly losing what little confidence it had. “Um, do...do you...need? Anything?”

John tries to keep his voice as warm as possible, cringing internally at himself for making Vincent uncomfortable. “Oh! No, I just- wanted to tell you that I really like your art. Especially that mural of Gandhi. That was, uh. Pretty cool.”

Vincent’s eyes widen in surprise, searching John’s face for any trace of dishonesty. He doesn’t seem to find it. John is more worried that Vincent will notice just how flustered he truly is, but Vincent turns away and grabs a bag off the table. He holds it out to John, eyes softer, smiling sheepishly.

“Gummy worm?”

John just stares at him for a second before breaking into a genuine, sparkling grin. He takes a gummy worm with a laugh and Vincent giggles, setting the bag down and wiping his hand across his jeans to pick one up with minimally paint covered fingers. _God, he has the cutest laugh._

“How do you do that? Like- with the paint and stuff. How do you know how to get the light just right?” John’s rambling now, but he’s desperate to stay in this quiet little bubble of peace and for Vincent to keep smiling at him.

Vincent looks up at him and John could swear his mortal soul left his body for a moment. This, he could probably paint, because there’s no way he could forget anything about the way Vincent’s eyes look in the warm light. His expression is innocent and curious and his baby blue irises are shining with excitement like scattered glitter. His cheeks aren’t so red anymore but they still have a pleasant rosiness to them, and his lips are pursed around his gummy worm, looking for all the world like the closest thing to an angel John Kennedy has ever seen. 

It takes John a shocking amount of self control not to scream out whatever emotion this is into the palm of his hand, or kiss Vincent, or both. His heart feels like it’s quite literally about to explode and splatter love all over his ribcage, but he begs it not to show in his face as Vincent bites down on his gummy and starts to explain color theory and how to layer elements properly. John is surprised that Vincent is even willing to talk to him, much less teach him, much less like...this. 

John just smiles at him, trying to take in as much of Vincent’s tsunami of information as he can, but mostly just marveling at how much more...alive Vincent looks, like a wind up toy twisted for the first time in years. Vincent’s actually gesturing, elaborating on every second tidbit of knowledge, and talking- well, not loudly, but louder than John’s ever heard from him. There’s feeling in his voice, real, genuine passion that tosses another bucket of gasoline into the wildfire raging in John’s chest. 

John notices, suddenly, that this is the first time Vincent has purposefully looked him in the eye, and John makes it his immediate objective to hold that eye contact as long as he can, until Vincent breaks it to rummage around in his paint stained messenger bag, surfacing with a sketchbook. He flips to a blank page and tears it out, placing it on the table between them and sliding his palette over, but John is too distracted by the paper to properly take in Vincent’s instructions.

It’s the same paper as the one in his pocket, the same heavy off-white material as the page that started all of this. _Do I- What do I say? How?_ Vincent is setting a paintbrush next to John’s arm- _Oh my god, it’s. It is him._ John’s brain clicks and glitches and melts into nothing but screaming static.

“Uh, K-Kennedy? Do you wanna, um... try?”

He’s snapped back to reality by Vincent’s questioning voice, looking down to see his eyebrows muddled in a mix of confusion and concern. 

“Oh! Yeah, of course! What, uh...what should I do?”

“Uh...is there something you had in mind?”

John looks frantically around to find a subject worth painting, other than Vincent. _Jesus, man, come on. Figure it out. You’re being weird. He doesn’t have much of a reason to be this nice to you anyway-_ His eyes land on the sleeves of Vincent’s jacket, following the trail of paint up his arms with a smile.

“Uh....maybe a sunflower.”

~

Vincent smiles back and nudges the paintbrush towards Kennedy, hoping his feigned nonchalance isn’t really as see-through as it feels. _Why is he here? What does he want? Why is he talking to you? It’s a trap, isn’t it- or maybe not, maybe he cares, but why would he? Why today? Why- no, c’mon Vincent, just keep going, he’s waiting, come on._ Vincent watches as Kennedy picks up the paintbrush and dips it into the brown paint already on the palette, pausing before he presses it to the paper.

“I, um... I start in the center, right?”

Vincent tries to momentarily wipe his memory of absolutely everything, other than painting techniques, desperately trying to ignore _fucking Kennedy_ sitting right next to him _oh shit oh shit._

“You can. Uh... just paint however you want,”

Kennedy flashes that same movie star grin, straight at Vincent, before turning to his piece of paper and starting to outline a vague brown circle. _Oh god, what the fuck am I doing? What is he doing? God, he’s hot- nope, time to shut up! He’s gonna make me the laughingstock of the school again, isn’t he. Fuck. Don’t panic, Vincent, stop fucking panicking you’re making everything worse, stop it-_

“What do you think?” Kennedy asks, showing Vincent his work. _He even tried to paint seeds._ Vincent nods in response, hoping he’s not actually shaking as violently as he feels like he is. Kennedy opens his mouth as if to say something more when the bell rings, signaling the end of their break. _Thank fucking god._

Kennedy smiles sheepishly as they both stand up, Kennedy to go to his next class _Or probably to go tell all his friends about how easy I am to manipulate_ and Vincent to clean up his art supplies before trudging reluctantly down to math. Vince cranes his neck up to meet Kennedy’s gaze. _Shit, he’s tall. And strong. And really hot-_

Kennedy beams down at him. “Hey, uh- thanks for the lesson, pipsqueak. I hope I didn’t interrupt anything important, but... I dunno, maybe you can tell me more about it sometime soon. If you want to, I mean, no pressure. I’m always here if you want to unload some knowledge on somebody. Uh- take it easy, sunflower. I’ll see you around.” 

All Vincent can manage to choke out before his throat closes completely is “Uh- no problem,”

Just like that, Kennedy’s out the door and out of sight before Vincent can even wrestle down another gasp of air. Vince looks around slowly, panic building until he sees Kennedy’s start of a sunflower still sitting on the table. He shoves his paints and the remnants of what he calls his lunch back into his bag with his sketchbook, tosses their paintbrushes at the sink, slides his canvas and Kennedy’s paper onto a drying rack, and stumbles out of the room. _Math can wait._

And once again, he’s back in his supply closet, door shuttered against the world and head in his arms, _don’t panic don’t panic don’t panic._ He doesn’t even quite understand why he’s upset, but that doesn’t matter. He rocks back and forth against the cold brick wall, clawing at his hair and wrists and crying eyes, trying to wait out the storm and find a way to be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhhh i hope you liked it!!!!!! 
> 
> they are both such oblivious idiots oh my god
> 
> vinnie please eat some actual food you dumb baby


	3. eyes that know the darkness in my soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> vincent and john try to figure some things out, with the help of a pink haired girl on the other end of the phone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> implied self harm mentions!!! also self esteem Issues and a little bit of internalized homophobia (nothing big tho :D)
> 
> hi hi!!!!!!!!! i’m sorry this took a while to get out!!!! school is kicking my ass hissjhwdjhdw but i’m planning on writing chapter four tomorrow so i can put that out on wednesday or thursday, just so the break between chapters isn’t as big!!! anyway enjoy sxhujbcejhce 
> 
> i love joan

Vincent somehow pulls it together enough to get through the rest of the day without making a third trip to his closet- hiding in the back of classrooms and not focusing on much more than holding off tears, panic, or the need for blood, but he does it. When the final bell rings, he is scampering for his locker to grab the textbook he needs for the homework he probably won’t do and out the side door before most of the student body has even seen the hallway.

His house isn’t terribly close, but it isn’t far by any means, and he’s long since abandoned bus rides- stuffy and overcrowded and inescapable, full of jeering teenagers, rocking too violently to draw or think, and utterly unbearable. He walks through the woods behind the school to escape the crowds and his own head for a while. He knows where all the best painting spots are and which trees give the best view of the town, where the frog pond sits and when the fox cubs start to venture out of the den. They’re his woods. Some days he stops to sit and watch the leaves fall, but today he just wants to get home. 

Dad’s a doctor and Mom is a preschool teacher, so Vince has the house to himself for a few hours after school to blast his sad indie music as loud as he wants and run down to the corner store for razor blades and bandaids to hide in the shoebox under his bed. The freedom is nice, but sometimes he just wishes someone was there to talk him down, to have another heartbeat in the house so his isn’t so deafening. 

The hotline was nice for a while, until- _don’t think about it don’t think about it don’t don’t don’t don’t don’t shut up shut up shut up shut up shut up._

He just calls Joan now, on her cell phone, and even that took a lot of working up to. An outlet is an outlet though, and he’ll take anything he can get. Painting is nice, but it can’t talk back, and his therapist tries her best, but he can’t go back to the hospital. He won’t. No, you shouldn’t lie to your psychiatrist, but sometimes the instinct for self preservation outweighs the desire to heal. He doesn’t know if he can heal.

He kicks his ratty yellow converse off at the door and hops up the stairs to his room, swinging his bag off his shoulders and tossing it aside as he twists his doorknob open. He shuts it behind him with his shoulder blades, slumping down to the floor with a sigh. It’s calm here. His room smells gently of lavender and paint, a comforting mix of memories. 

The walls, of course, are covered in art. Paintings and drawings hang from strips of scotch tape while posters and polaroid pictures of sunsets are plastered above his bed, but most of the paint sits on the walls themselves. White lilies spring up from the floorboards and constellations swim across the ceiling, but his favorite are the sunflowers. They’re always present somewhere in his ever changing display like they’re always present on his birthday and always present on his sleeves. 

It’s all very pretty, but it offers no real comfort. When there’s no hugs to be had, words will do. They have to. Joan sits at the top of his contact list, second only to his mother, from the last time he called, which was a week ago. _Because you don’t have any fucking friends! God, you’re pathetic. You do know she actually has a life, right? She doesn’t want to deal with your bullshit all the damn time! You’re such a fucking bur-_

She answers on the first ring like usual. 

“Hey, Van Gogh, what’s up?”

He hesitates for a second, but tries to force it all out somehow. “I just. I dunno. I don’t know what’s going on. I- I don’t know. It feels like it’s getting bad again and I don’t want it to but...what do I do? I can’t- I can’t go back. There’s ghosts in my brain or something but it’s not like it used to be it just. It’s a real person and I can’t medicate a real person away.”

Joan is quiet for a moment. “Do you know why they’re there? How does it feel?”

“Um- it’s stupid. I’m being an idiot. It’s not bad it just. It’s just never going to work and I’ll break my own heart ‘cause I’m a dumbass. It’s not anyone’s fault but mine.”

“What happened today?” Her voice is softer this time, trying to coax the truth out of him. He fidgets with his fingernails on the floor of his bedroom.

“I. It was a shitty morning. I just wanted to paint and then fucking Kennedy walks in and starts talking to me and I don’t know why but. He’s just trying to fuck with me but he seems so nice and I know he’s not and I know he’s just looking for a joke or something and I feel stupid for even trying to make him like me. It was just- out of fuckin’ nowhere. Why would he...why bother? He didn’t even really have anything to say, he was just asking about my painting and he said he likes my art and I know he’s just trying to make me look like an idiot for believing him but I want to and that’s so fucking stupid of me. ‘Oh, look at stupid fucking Vincent who’s too dumb to realize that nobody actually likes him! Look at Vincent, his brain is so fucked up he doesn’t even realize we’re making fun of him! Poor sad little Vincent, can’t do fucking anything right, fucking idiotic for believing us when we said he wasn’t worthless. Look at dumbfuck art boy who can’t stop talking about paint to the first person that’ll listen! Oh, did you hear that crazy Vincent has a crush on fucking Kennedy? What a moron.’ I can’t. I can’t deal with this shit again.”

He’s starting to tear up again. Joan can’t see him digging his chewed up nails into his bandaged wrists, but she can sense it through the phone. He doesn’t quite realize how much he’s admitted until she responds.

“I know Kennedy. I’ve known him since we were little kids, and I know he can be kind of a dick sometimes, but...I don’t think he’d do something like that. He’s a bit oblivious, but he does have a heart. It’s just...buried under the person he feels like he needs to be. I know I can’t convince you just by telling you, but you do matter, y’know? Someone needs to keep Gandhi in check, anyway. You’re not as much of a waste as you think you are.”

He sniffle-laughs a little into the phone. “Thanks, Joan.”

“Oh, and Vincent- it’s okay. He’s a dumbass. I think- just...maybe, okay, hear me out- I think he could genuinely like you. He just doesn’t know how to express anything. Just... give it a little time. I’ll ask him to back off if you want, but...you never know. But he won’t pull any dumb shit, I promise. I’ll fuck him up and he knows it.”

Vincent whispers a small but audibly grateful “Okay. Thank you,”

He can see her smile in his head. “Always, Vince. It’s gonna be alright.”

He clicks the call off and takes a deep, deep breath in, settling back into himself. His phone slips out of his hand onto the flap of his bag as he rolls over off the wall and onto the floor, laying on his back, staring up at his inky stars. 

_It’s gonna be alright. It’s gonna be alright. It’s gonna be alright._

~

John is at football practice, like most Autumn weekdays, but his mind is elsewhere. He doesn’t notice just how much he isn’t thinking about football until the ball in question smacks him right between the eyes, literally. 

He whips around in the direction it came from to see Rock Hudson waving indignantly towards him.

“Hey, KENNEDY! GET’CHER HEAD OUTTA YOUR ASS! WE HAVE GAMES TO WIN!”

John rolls his eyes and lobs the ball back to him, snorting as it sails right over Hudson’s fingertips. Hudson isn’t incorrect, they do have more games coming up, along with a rabid desire to win them. _I wonder if Vincent will come again._

_Shut up about Vincent._

John tries to refocus, cursing himself silently. _Think football thoughts, dipshit. There’s only like a half hour left and then you can go fawn over that art boy you probably mildly traumatized. Get it together. Maybe Joan knows what the hell to do._

Practice does end fairly quickly, and mostly without John’s brain floating out of his skull again. He shouts his goodbyes to his teammates and heads for his car, waving off the suggestion of an excursion to the Grassy Knoll and citing homework as his reasoning. Really, he just wants to get home, collapse on his bed, and try to decipher whatever is going on in his mind.

He drives past Joan’s place and considers dropping in before remembering that she’s probably still holed up in the faculty lounge, under the excuse of the hotline, but really just making herself free coffee and putting off her homework while she racks up community service hours. He respects it. She is genuinely helping people, so let her play solitaire and steal lemon drops while she does it. God knows the mental health support at school is...lacking, to say the least.

He pulls into his driveway and calls greetings to his fathers as he scales the stairs three at a time, twisting around the corner into his room and shutting the door behind him. His backpack and football stuff are tossed at the foot of his bed as he grabs his phone to call Joan, who is the only one he can really go to in a situation like this. His guy friends are fun to shoot the shit with, but they’re all pretty useless when it comes to real feelings. Joan is the only person who has both his trust and any kind of common sense or emotional intelligence. She picks up after a pause of a few seconds.

“Hey dipshit, what’d you do this time?”

He feigns offense at her customary greeting. “Hey, Jo, how’s it going?”

She sighs heavily. “I’m fine, but also kind of failing physics, y’know? Abe and Gandhi are driving me to an early grave, but at least the shit I get to know on here is moderately entertaining. How’re you? And like seriously, what happened? I can feel the drama from here,”

“Nothing really HAPPENED, happened, I just...I’m not sure, exactly. I have a bunch of weird feelings about someone who’s definitely not willing to go there and I did not consent to like, emotions and shit.”

“Aww, Kenny has a little crush!” She croons into the phone, laughing at his sputtering protests. “Okay, okay, all jokes aside, I promise. So...I’ll gather you some intel, but you gotta tell me who...”

He hesitates, but she’s known him too well for too long, and she can read him like a book. She lowers her voice, tone less teasing. “It’s a boy, huh?”

He wants to be surprised or confused or maybe just a little bit offended, but he’s not and he knows it. It’s Joan. She can see right through him. He breathes out slowly, trying to work up the courage to admit it. _She’s a literal lesbian, you dumbass. She’s not gonna care._

_I know she doesn’t care. The problem is that I do._

There’s silence for a couple of beats. “John,” she whispers, soft and quiet. “S’okay. You don’t have to say it yet, but it’s okay. I promise.”

He hums a small agreement and takes a long, heavy breath in. “Yeah...no, it’s. It’s alright. I feel like some sappy idiot in one of your subtextual coming of age indie movies. Well- I mean, he’s an indie movie protagonist if I’ve ever seen one. I...I think you probably know him. That’s good, I guess. It’s less obvious than you going James Bond on some random guy at least. Anyway...you will, uh, help me out a little, right?”

She doesn’t miss the other question hidden in his tone. _Promise you won’t judge me? Promise you’ll stay? I can’t do this on my own. Say you’ll be here._ “Of course I will. It’ll work out. Nobody can resist a Kennedy, of course,”

He laughs at that one. “Yeah. Yeah, I sure hope so. I...” He freezes, teetering on the edge of the cliff, knowing that either he spits it out now or he won’t be able to. He pictures Vincent’s flickering smile and makes his choice.

“You... you know Vincent, right? Van Gogh? He was the one uh... I think, at that party, right, on the phone? You beat Gandhi’s ass to a pulp and Vinnie-Vincent. Van Gogh. Uh. Painted that mural of him outside the gym. I mean- they’d painted over it within a day, but it kicked ass.”

She smiles to herself. “Yeah. Yeah, I know him. Vincent, huh? I can see it. You’d be good together. He’s cute, too.”

John clears his throat and stammers out, “Uh...yeah. He’s...he’s pretty. He’s got... really big eyes- and they’re blue as all hell! Like, I’ve seen blue eyes, but his are BLUE. And longass eyelashes- like, I swear, Cleo would be so jealous- and like, tangeriney hair. And he’s TINY! He’s just... adorable. I wanna hug him.”

Joan laughs. “I mean... you’re huge, so keep that in mind. But he is pretty small. And...uh, how is Cleo? You’re still friends, right?”

“Oh yeah, we’re cool. She’s already ranting about the boy of the week. Honestly, we’re closer now than when we were, like, dating. She’s cool. Why?”

“Oh- um, no reason. Just wondering. Tomorrow we start scheming, ‘kay? We’re gonna get you the boy. I gotta dip before Scudworth comes in here and interrogates me about where the last of the girl scout cookies went, because it definitely wasn’t me. Do your homework. Seeya tomorrow, Kennedy.”

“Bye, Jojo. Make sure you hide the wrappers somewhere he won’t look. And, uh- thanks.”

“Of course. With great power comes the great responsibility of playing matchmaker for the whole student body.”

He laughs and hangs up, falling backwards onto his bed and staring at the blank-faced ceiling. _Vincent, Vincent, Vincent._ He imagines Vincent laughing with him on his bed, Vincent painting sleepily, curled in his lap, Vincent wearing one of his shirts, much too big for him, but beaming like the sun. 

_Vincent, Vincent, Vincent, Vincent, Vincent. My Vincent. My sunflower._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope you liked it!!!!!!!!! they are. so baby. joan is the only one here who can see wtf is going on sxjnxsnkjbcs 
> 
> cleoan tho 😳
> 
> nuxsnjsdjbsx but seriously if anyone knows how to do geometry Please Share bc i am Failing.


	4. shadows on the hills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> vinnie and john collide once again. joan helps them sort it out
> 
> tw for self harm implications + brief suicidal ideation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so!!! yes i’m back !!! i will give you the chapter but i wanna talk about some things first :3
> 
> first of all, thank all of you so so so so much !!!! i had no idea this would get so much attention and love and i’m so glad you enjoy it !!!!!!!!!!!!!! i love you all mwah <3
> 
> second, i am SO SORRY it has been so lONG DOJFDKJFE !!!! i’m not dead and i haven’t lost interest, but school has been kicking my ASS lately and i have had zero time or energy to do this even tho i really wanted to >:(( post schedule Should be less messed up from now on ednjfnekkn sorrysorrysorry!!!
> 
> ALSO, i am still active on my instagram, which is @ rosemarysw0rd !!!! i’ll be posting scheduling updates as well as q+as and my messy little doodles !!!! feel free to dm me or just swing by and say hi !!!
> 
> anyway, i’m done rambling now! here ya go, and thank you so much for your patience!!

John is jolted awake by the shriek of his alarm the next morning, reaching across his bed to smack it off and accidentally sending everything within three feet flying. He stumbles out of bed to pick up all the larger tripping hazards and gropes around blindly in his drawers to find some pants and elbow the light on. 

He can hear Wally shout from downstairs, probably while flipping pancakes, “Fifteen minutes, baby! Make sure you have your homework! And take your meds!”

“I got it, dad!”

He is internally grateful for the reminder, though- _Okay, homework. Uhh...math, check, bio, check, Spanish, check, history... good enough, English...the essay’s not due til Friday, I have time._

He shoves his binder and haphazard pile of notebooks back into his backpack and tosses it into the hallway as he pulls on a polo and slides into his usual loafers. After a quick pit stop in the bathroom to brush his teeth and down his pill (three cheers for Adderall!), he’s joining his dads at the kitchen table to inhale his eggs and be on his way. 

Wally is the only one of them with any real organizational skills and therefore the one holding the three of them together. “Baby, you have practice today, right?”

John nods with a mouth full of pancake. 

“You have your stuff?”

John shovels another forkful of cheesy scrambled eggs into his mouth and hops out of his seat to race up to his room, tossing his football bag at the door as he walks back to the table. Wally sighs, but not without a smile.

“Carl, hon, you remembered to call that client back, right?”

John, done with his interrogation and his breakfast, places his dishes in the sink and slings his bag over his shoulder with a call of “Bye! Love you!” as he steps outside.

He can hear the reply of “Have a good day! Love you too!” echoing through the closing door and he clicks his keys to wake his car. Baggage settled in the passenger seat, he backs out of the driveway and starts down the road towards school, exhaling slowly and mulling over the contents of his now fully conscious brain. _Alright. Game plan. What did Joan say- right, no, we’ll talk later. Vincent. Yesterday, uh, happened, I guess. Try again? Does he need space- or will he assume I was just being an asshole if I don’t talk to him again today. Probably thinks I’m an asshole either way. God, this is fucking difficult._

He’s apparently out of time to ruminate because the entrance to the student parking lot is approaching quickly and he needs to try his best to think school thoughts. _Not Vincent thoughts._

The car settles into stillness and he picks up his stuff. He waves to people in the halls and retrieves his books from his locker as he absently traces the route to homeroom, scanning the crowd for peachy curls or a flash of paint covered clothing. _Stop thinking about Vincent. Stop getting your hopes up. He doesn’t care and neither do you. You don’t even know him. Just go to class._

~

Vincent is not having the best morning. 

He woke up with a headache and a whole bunch of thoughts leftover from a dream he didn’t agree to have. He’s choosing not to recall any more of it than he already has because his brain has been uncooperative enough on its own and subconscious projections of idyllically impossible futures are not helping. It’s also cold as all hell and his favorite oversized sweater is in the growing pile of dirty laundry, so he’s settled for a white turtleneck shirt underneath a sweater that’s a couple sizes closer to fitting him properly. He woke up too late to make himself tea or throw anything more than half a sleeve of crackers into his bag- not like he’s actually going to eat more than that, but the cookies beside them would have been preferable, at least. He gave up on his math homework halfway through, casting out a silent prayer that the teacher doesn’t want to collect it, but given the way his day is going, she probably will.

He ducks into the side door just as the five minute warning bell rings, mumbling curses under his breath as he tries to worm his way to his locker before homeroom. He makes it into his seat just as the intercom crackles to life with its usual ear-shattering static, huffing a small sigh of relief, drowned out by Scudworth’s deviously chipper morning announcements. 

He has a couple of minutes in homeroom to shuffle his binder back into order and find a pencil in the bottom of his bag before he’s off to first period. With Kennedy.

_Fuck._

He’s almost home safe, through the doorway and into his seat in the back of the class, almost free to doodle in the margins and breathe and ignore things he doesn’t want to think about. He can almost relax a little, but-

“Hey, Vincent!”

He freezes, but he recognizes that voice all too well. Not Kennedy. Not again. He spins on one heel to face exactly who he was hoping he wouldn’t run into.

Kennedy is smiling down at him with a deceptively friendly spark in his eyes. Vincent stares back, trying not to really look too hard at him and trying to beat his thoughts back with a louisville slugger. _Fuck, he’s tall- no, shit, say something-don’t think about the fucking dimples SHUT UP-_

“Uhh...h-hi. Kennedy.”

Kennedy shoots him a dazzling grin that nearly knocks Vincent over and then he’s gone, already whooping at some football buddy across the room while Vincent just watches him with a mixture of curiosity and a swelling sense of panic. There’s a lingering waft of cologne in the air Kennedy leaves behind him, something earthy and spiced that leaves Vincent a little lightheaded, though that may be due more to Kennedy than the cologne. Vincent unlocks his knees and slips into his seat in the back of the room, tucking his feet under his thighs and propping himself up on the bag in his lap, trying to convince his muscles to turn back into muscle rather than whatever jello mush they’re currently made of.

At least he’s not having a panic attack this time. _That’s not an achievement, dipshit._ Class ends eventually and Vincent waits with his notebook, more full of drawings than notes, for Kennedy to be suitably distracted so he can slip out into the hallway and escape, even though some part of him is secretly still hoping that Kennedy will find him again. 

~

John is absently fidgeting with his pen in English, diligently ignoring whatever material is being taught. He has an essay to write- or, he thinks so. Probably? He has an actual to-do list somewhere in his bag, but he’s working off a different one in his head. The first thing was to say hi to Vincent, which he’s already done. _Should I find him later? How many times do I talk to him today? What’s a normal amount of times? Is he gonna get creeped out? He seemed to like having someone to talk to yesterday, but. He also seemed to be freaking the fuck out. God-_

He’s also texted Joan to ask for advice once today, but all he got back was a strongly worded message essentially telling him to fuck off and let her pay attention to class, and that he should probably be doing the same. She’s not wrong, there are just other thoughts in his brain at the moment. _Okay, uh. Words. I’ll bet Vincent’s good at words._

He taps his pen against his forehead, trying to shoo the thoughts of paint and shy smiles away. _Okay. Talk to Joan. Find him later. And try to get some work done._

He bullshits his way through his other morning classes, none of which are terribly difficult, even with a one-track mind running down the wrong track. When the bell rings to signal the start of his lunch period, his first mission is to find Joan- or Vincent. Whoever comes first. His books are shoved on top of his sneakers and some scattered gum wrappers at the bottom of his locker, and he sets off in the vague direction of the cafeteria.

He’s walking a bit slower than usual and the halls are emptying fast. He almost starts to turn the corner to the echoes of the lunchroom when he sees a flash of blue canvas and nectarine hair down the hall and his heartbeat doubles its pace. He hesitates for a moment, but pushes his thoughts aside.

“Hi, Vincent!”

Vincent whips around to face him, eyes wide and hands frozen in place around the strap of his messenger bag. _Oh, shit, is he scared? Be nice, idiot-_

John takes a couple steps toward Vincent, not moving terribly fast, but definitively focused on him. “Uh- how’re you doing?”

And Vincent is running- really RUNNING, bolting like a startled rabbit out of John’s sight so quickly he’s not quite sure Vincent was even there at all. John just blinks at the space Vincent was occupying half a second ago, motionless, one hand still floating in the air in front of him. He breathes in and it drops at the same time as his stomach.

_Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, you fucked it up bad this time, huh? Couldn’t just leave him alone even though you know he doesn’t want anything to do with you? You fucking asshole. He’s SCARED of you. What does that say about you? He just thinks you’re gonna be a dick to him like you are to everyone. He’s been hurt enough by the fuckers at this school. He doesn’t need you to hurt him too._

John stands immobile in the empty hallway for a few seconds before slowly turning back toward the cafeteria and reluctantly trudging down the path, eyes fixed on the shitty, white flecked tile floor.

“Hey, jackass, I was looking for you!”

He glances up at Joan, leaning against the outer wall of the gym, magenta hair pinned out of her face and chunky combat boots tapping impatiently on the door of someone’s locker. Her face falls a bit as she sees his, arranging itself into a predictably Joan-ish mix of inquiry and concern. 

“Are you okay?”

He takes a place beside her with a sigh, slumping down the thin metal onto the slightly dusty floor. She follows a second later, nudging one loafer with the toe of her boot.

She’s quieter this time when she asks. “What happened?”

John drums the back of his head against the locker doors, a gentle back and forth. He takes a long breath in and lets it back out with a quick puff of air. “I don’t think Vincent likes me very much.”

Joan cocks her head, one eyebrow raised incredulously. “And why is that?”

“Dunno. He just...he seems kinda scared of me, honestly. I don’t know what I did, but... something, probably. Probably just thinks I’m an ass, which wouldn’t be an unfair assumption to make. I said hi in first period and he responded, at least, but a minute ago when I tried to talk to him he ran- like, booked it away. I don’t know what he’s... I don’t know. I don’t wanna hurt him.”

Joan sighs heavily and reaches over to pat John’s knee. “I don’t think he hates you. He’s just... anxious. He probably just got overwhelmed. He can kinda assume the worst of people at times, so just... take it slow. He needs a while to warm up. You’re also kind of intimidating- no offense, but y’know. You’re the quarterback and all and he is probably struggling to come up with a non-suspicious reason as to why you’re suddenly so interested.”

“Oh. Right, yeah, that makes sense. I generally wouldn’t- I mean, I was just happy that I found any possible kind of reason to suddenly be around him, but...OH. FUCK.”

Joan stares at him, waiting for an explanation.

“I- I mean, I have a reason, or what I thought could maybe be a reason anyway, but HE doesn’t know that because I am a dumbass. Oh sh- neither do you. I’m incredibly intelligent, as you can tell.”

Joan rolls her eyes, but smiles. “And what is that?”

“I found this... piece of paper. In, uh, the trash, but anyway- it was a page full of doodles and stuff but it was all... me. Like, really well drawn, with hearts in the margins and shit and I didn’t know it was him that drew it, but... I kinda wanted it to be. So I went to go find him to... I don’t know, actually, I didn’t really think that part through all the way. But I found him and he gave me a little art lesson, probably because he was confused as all hell, but his sketchbook was the same paper as the trash doodles, that nice artsy paper stuff, not shitty blue lined notebook. So... I kinda knew- well. Hoped with a bit more valid reasoning, but I thought it was him. Which means he must like me- I hope, anyway... it seemed like it, but. I don’t know. But... I really like him and I feel like an idiot because I barely know him but I really fucking like him. And he... does not. Know that.”

Joan looks back at him, blank faced, as if absorbing everything he’s just said. He starts to try to explain again, to make some attempt to justify anything, but she bursts out laughing before he can open his mouth. He squints at her, but she keeps laughing.

She flicks a fingernail under her eye to swat away a smeared chunk of mascara and takes a deep, giggly breath. “Oh my god, Kennedy. You’re disasters, both of you. You’ll figure it out, though. We’ll figure it out.”

She picks herself up and extends a hand to him. He laughs and takes it, but pushes himself up and twirls her like they’re back in that sixth grade ballroom dance class that they both hated. 

“I’ll check on him. You go eat something.”

He smiles gratefully. “Thanks. I’ll grab you a snickers or something if you want.”

She pauses. “I’m good. Just, uh... say hi to Cleo for me.”

“I will. Tell him I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, yeah. Seeya later.”

“Seeya, Jojo.”

~

_Stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid. What the fuck were you thinking? He’s actually showing any kind of goddamn interest and even if it’s probably just for public humiliation it’s SOMETHING. And fucking running away like a spooked horse is definitely saving you from embarrassment! Can you do anything besides hide and cry like a fucking baby? God. At least offing yourself leaves some kind of tragedy behind other than just idiocy and uselessness because really-_

There’s a soft knock at the door of Vincent’s closet. 

He holds a hand over his mouth to muffle his sobs and stops frantically trying to rip off the bandages on his wrists, as if whoever’s there will disappear if he is still and silent enough. He tries not to hyperventilate. The knock comes again.

He tries not to breathe at all.

“Vincent? Are you okay?”

The voice is gentle, and familiar even when it isn’t from the other side of the phone. _God god god, you already take up enough of her time with your bullshit. She doesn’t need to come babysit you here too. How did she even- Kennedy told fucking everyone, didn’t he? He told fucking everyone what a moron you are and she’s here out of pity because nobody else cares and she shouldn’t either-_

“Vincent, I know you’re in there. You don’t have to talk, I just wanna make sure you’re alright. I’m here if you need me.”

Vincent stares at the doorknob, both begging her to go away and begging her to stay. The need for comfort is starting to pick a fight with the violent self hatred and he’s not sure which one needs to win. The tears running down his cheeks aren’t burning so much anymore but his breathing is starting to wobble out of its rhythm and he knows.

There’s silence for a couple of moments, broken by the soft click of the door unlocking. He scrubs at his face with the cuffs of his jacket, pulling them over his wrists and trying to look at least a little less snot covered. 

She pulls gently on the door, stepping in and shutting it behind her before taking a seat on the floor beside Vincent. He looks up at her, glassy eyed and still crying, and she smiles softly back. 

Joan opens her arms, an escapable invitation for him to accept or decline, quiet but comforting. “Hey.”

He hesitates, blinking tears out of his eyelashes, leaning slightly forward, but her eyes are warm and her smile is real and she is offering affection, and who is he to refuse?

She almost wonders if he actually wants to be touched in any way, but then his arms are around her back and his head is in the crook of her neck and she just pulls him in and holds him there. His hair smells like vanilla, some unnamable kind of shampoo tinged with the lingering aura of paint and he’s holding onto her like she’s an anchor, the only thing keeping him from floating away.

They sit like that for a while, Joan rubbing his back gently and Vincent wrapped around her like a blanket. His breathing is still shaky, but he’s not crying anymore. He sniffs a little bit and tilts his head back to look at her face and she looks back at him, a question in her eyes that she’s waiting for him to answer.

“Di-did... Kennedy t-tell everybody? Is that why you’re here?”

Joan blinks at him for a second, one brow twisting slightly in confusion. “Huh? Oh! Oh, no, he didn’t. He came to me to ask if I’d apologize to you for him, ‘cause he knows I know you and he didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

Vincent’s eyes widen and fade to a slight haze, as if retreating into his head to process everything. He opens his mouth a little, then closes it with a skeptical tilt of his head. He snaps back to Joan after a few seconds. “He... he did? He... he shouldn’t be sorry. I was just... I don’t know. It’s not his fault. He didn’t do anything wrong.”

“You got overwhelmed. It’s not your fault either. I don’t blame you- teenagers are shitheads, and he’s... intimidating. I think he forgets that a lot. He does genuinely want to know you. It seems sudden, I know, but... I think it took him a while to work up to it.”

Vincent squints at her, cartoonishly confused. “Why would he be scared to talk to me? And why does he even care?”

Joan shrugs. “I don’t know. You’re interesting. All quiet and mysterious and talented, like some indie film protagonist. And you’re a sweetheart. You have good energy. And he... he seems like a big dumb asshole jock, and while that’s not entirely incorrect, he’s really just a huge dork.”

Vincent can’t help but smile a little at her compliments, not caring for the moment if he actually believed them or not. “Huh. I don’t... I don’t want him to feel bad. If anything, I should probably apologize. He’s just trying to be nice.”

“You don’t need to be sorry either. Mutual miscommunication. It’s okay. It’ll all work out. I can tell him for you if you want, or you could do it yourself, but I get it if that’s too much right now.”

“Yeah... yeah, thanks. I wanna talk to him, but... I’ll figure out a less awkward way.”

Joan smiles. “Alright. I’ll get that back to him. Are you feeling okay? Did you eat anything? There’s still a couple minutes left if you wanna go grab some cheetos or something.”

“Yeah, I’m fine. I probably look like a hot mess but... that’s not really any different from normal. I have some crackers in my bag, but, um... thank you. For... caring. You don’t have to go out of your way so much for me- I appreciate it, but... you have a life, and... friends and I don’t wanna take up too much of your time.”

Joan snorts and ruffles his hair with one hand. “I’m not going out of my way. You are my friend. I just wanna make sure you’re okay.”

“Oh. O-okay.”

She smiles and stands up, pulling him up by the hands with her and brushing the dust off her pants. He slings his bag back across his shoulder and they step into the hallway just as the bell rings, summoning them both back to class.

She winks and squeezes his shoulder as she walks away, calling a “Seeya, Vince! Have a good day, ‘kay?” 

And just like that, she’s melted into the sudden rush of people filling the halls. Vincent drifts toward his locker, letting the crowd carry him, staring into the midline with a spreading grin on his face.

_Friend. Friend friend friend friend friend. She said you’re her friend! He didn’t tell everyone! That doesn’t rule out malice, but... maybe. Maybe he wants to be friends too. I don’t know why he’d pick you out of all people. Probably for some kind of social experiment. ‘Ooh, let’s see if I can tame the local crazy!’ But... even if it is. It’s something. And she said you’re friends. You have a friend._

~

John rides out the rest of the day, relieved at least that Vincent doesn’t hate him, but still devotedly ignoring him, just in case. Joan caught him after lunch to explain and he’s glad that he didn’t do any major damage, but still residually guilty.

He waves to Joan across the hall as the final bell rings and tries to focus on football practice. _God, you’re oblivious, huh? Never thought that a bullied kid who you don’t even really know would be suspicious of your sudden interest in following him around? Never thought that just because he doesn’t actively hate you he’ll automatically want to be your friend or something? You’re acting like a creep anyway. He probably doesn’t even like dudes, much less you. Just stop. Forget it. Go to practice._

~

Vincent skips through the woods and stumbles out of the brush onto the asphalt of his road, sketchbook in hand and a plan hatched in his head. It should work out- Joan helped with the logistical side, and he’s already figured out his campaign. He unlocks the door and bounces up to his room as fast as he can, because he only has two hours and brushes to wash, and he’ll need as much time as he can get for the paint to dry.

~

Football practice is predictably ordinary, though John did manage to hit Winston Churchill in the nuts with the ball to get him back for messing up his hair. His head is, also predictably, not entirely in the game. Vincent is occupying arguably more than his fair share of John’s brain space and while John isn’t terribly mad about that, it can be distracting. Especially since earlier- Joan was adamant that he didn’t do anything wrong, but John can’t help but feel guilty anyway. 

Practice ends and he shovels his homework and gear into his car to head back home and collapse on his bed and overthink absolutely everything all over again. Maybe he’ll walk to Joan’s place when she’s done with the hotline to overthink things there.   
_Maybe Vincent will be thinking about you too. Maybe not all is lost._

He sighs and presses on the gas.

_More likely it is._

~

Vincent is currently bounding across town through backwoods and backyards, vaguely following the shitty google maps directions to the address Joan gave him, though not without a wink and some over exaggerated eyebrow wiggling. It’s not terribly far, but he’s also not terribly tall, and he’s starting to wish he biked instead. The package in his hands is getting annoying to carry, especially because he’s trying not to wrinkle or squish or drop it at all. It is dry, as far as he could tell- he took his mother’s hairdryer to it when he started running short on time. He steps out of a bush and onto the sidewalk, garnering a bewildered glance from a jogger and choosing to ignore it. The street name is right, so he follows the rows of houses up the road and stops just out of sight of the one he’s looking for.

His heart is trying it’s best to claw out of his chest and smack him in the face, but he’s made up his mind and he is remarkably stubborn when he wants to be. He tiptoes closer, trying to make out which cars are in the driveway. Joan said red convertible, and it is very much there. He takes a deep breath, picks his way across the yard, and knocks on the door.

~

“Baby, someone’s here to see you!”

John looks up from his article about the evolution of the governmental system of Bolivia and silently thanks whoever it is that’s at the door. Joan, maybe? Or one of his teammates here to drop off whatever it is that he managed to forget this time, and/or drag him out to the Grassy Knoll for milkshakes? He scrambles down the stairs three at a time, running a hand through his freshly washed and still damp hair and assessing the presentability level of whatever old tee shirt he threw on after his shower. Good enough, he decides, and halts at the bottom of the steps.

Wally smiles at him and backs away into the kitchen with a quiet, “I’ll let you two talk,” and a smug kind of glimmer in his eyes.

_Oh. Fuck._

Vincent stands at his front door fidgeting nervously with some kind of parcel in his hands, red in the face and looking like he really doesn’t want to be here, but gorgeous as always nonetheless. John just stares, trying not to seem too bug-eyed or disheveled or ecstatic to see him. _Oh fuck oh FUCK- no, SAY SOMETHING, DIPSHIT don’t just stare- he’s so cute holy fuck- GOD. Why is he here- say hi. Start there._

John clears his throat and manages to choke out, “Uh. Hi! How, uh- how are you?”

Vincent meets his gaze and widens his eyes, shifting nervously back and forth on the balls of his feet. He’s wearing slightly beaten yellow converse and olive green jeans rolled up to just above his ankles. His socks are mismatched- one is mustard yellow with white polka dots, and the other is a solid baby blue with tiny flowers stitched into it. John has to remind himself to breathe despite whatever war is being waged in his chest cavity. _Oh my god he’s adorable fucking christ-_

Vincent looks back up at him, jaw clenched, as if forcing himself to face him. John blinks back at him, smiling softly. Vincent takes a jerky step forward and holds out the package in his shaking hands.

“This is for you! Uh... I’m sorry for. Earlier. I- uh... I hope you like it.”

John reaches for it, brushing Vincent’s hand as he intercepts the paper wrapping and sucking in a sharp breath as Vincent shivers. John holds it lightly in his fingertips, like it’s some precious and fragile thing and he’s scared to ruin it. 

He looks Vincent in the eyes and smiles. Vincent looks at him, still a little bit terrified, but smiles softly back. 

The phone starts to ring from somewhere and the moment is broken. John curses internally. Vincent is fidgeting again, rocking slightly and clawing at his cuticles. John frantically tries to come up with anything to say, something to make him stay a little longer, but Vincent interrupts his thoughts.

“Uh...I’m. I should get going. Um. See you tomorrow?”

John smiles. “Yeah. See you tomorrow. And thank you.”

Vincent nods sheepishly, not quite meeting his eyes, and then he’s gone again, closing the door gently behind him with a small wave goodbye.

John looks down at the present in his hands and walks slowly up the stairs to his room, examining the paper and wondering what’s inside. It’s not quite wrapping paper- tawny beige and not as plasticky. Wax paper, maybe? 

He reaches his doorway and shuts it behind him, settling on his bed and resting it on his blanket in front of him. He slides a finger under the tape on the back and unfolds it to reveal a canvas.

It’s a painting- beautiful, swirled with yellows and dusty reds and browns. A sunflower. 

There’s a note taped to the back. He pulls it off gently, and unfolds it. It’s just a phone number. He smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wHEW !!!!! they are trying their Best and i love them !!!
> 
> i hope you enjoyed !!!!
> 
> jfk has adhd bc i said so :3 not as stereotypical like gandhi’s tho! based off my/my brother’s/my friends’ own experiences

**Author's Note:**

> jvnknjggugu i hope you liked it!!! i pinky promise there will be a happy ending- i’m superduper sensitive too, i understand (/srs)


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